


Infectious Death

by Enigma



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, M/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigma/pseuds/Enigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The zombie-plague spreads like wildfire over the entire world, and Sherlock Holmes struggles to keep his friends safe before it hits London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Safe and Sound

It started some time ago over in South America. At first it was just a simple, yet surprisingly contagious flu that spread like wildfire through the suburbs of the greater cities. No one took notice.  
Then a handful of days later the more disturbing symptoms kicked in. There were reports of people who lost their minds to the infection. It was easily quieted down.  
But then the first death reports came in, and the whole continent panicked. In a matter of days the streets were filled to the bursting point with dead, rotting bodies and the barely-alive limping around in search of those who had remained uninfected.  
Thirteen days after the first reported death, Paraguay closed its borders. Then Peru followed, and the rest of South America. The States barricaded the borders.   
At first there had been cries of help from the other side of the closed doors, but as time went by the voices faded. In the end, they disappeared.   
On May 22nd the borders were opened for a single day, in order to let into the States the few, remaining survivors. There were only very few left, and they were thoroughly checked for carrying the virus.  
Nine days later, on the official mourning day of the hundreds of millions of deceased, another outbreak occurred in Albuquerque. This time the disease was unstoppable.  
In a matter of days the dead were piling up again, and this time, borders was no boundary. It bled through the lands, covering its track in the dark-red blood of its victims. Nothing would stop it.  
Reports were vague and absurd, mostly because the vast majority of witnesses to the disease had died. The clearest description of the symptoms was spoken on international television on the 18th of June by a Japanese woman who had fled for her life in a truck.   
She said the victims had died and risen from their death, filled with anger, mindlessness and hunger.

 

 

“John!” the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes called as he burst through the doors of his flatmates bedroom.   
John was sitting on the bed with a book in his hands and he looked up puzzled at the disturbance.  
For a moment the newly arrived just stood in the doorway staring at his friend in silence. He was holding tightly onto his phone.  
“Mycroft’s just called. It has reached Paris.”  
More silence as John tried to grasp the information he was given.  
“But... how has it reached Europe? I though they closed all borders!” John tumbled out of bed and stood slightly baffled on the middle of the floor, ready to take action but unaware of which action to take.   
“Not soon enough apparently.” Sherlock said in a low voice, not daring to look into John’s eyes. He suddenly leaped away from the doorway and started gathering clothes from drawers and cupboards.  
“Don’t you think they can stop it crossing the English Channel?” John asked in a voice that mimicked those of the news reporters who had proclaimed the safety of Britain. In order to do something he started picking up the stuff Sherlock threw around, holding it all in his arms.  
“The Atlantic didn’t stop it; I don’t see why the channel should.” Sherlock said as he started throwing socks at him. “And that even if they have closed all traffic. Misery is good soil for desperation, and desperate thoughts lead to desperate actions; people will cross anyway.”  
“Yes, of course.” John said, not giving up on carrying everything. “Wait. Hold on! What are you doing?” he asked furiously, not understanding what Sherlock was doing in his underwear drawer.  
“I am packing for you. Mycroft have arranged to get you to this nice, quiet little island up in the North that hasn’t seen human life for the past couple of years. You’ll be safe there.”  
“I’ll be safe?” John asked in vain.  
“Yes. Indeed you will. You will stay there for a couple of months or so; until the mainland has gone quiet. It is as safe as one can get in this mad world. I have it arranged.” Sherlock pulled out a trunk and filled it with the stuff he’d gathered from around the room.  
John stood quiet and stared at his flatmate. Sherlock refused to turn around and look at him as he suddenly found great interest in pulling out shoes and picking the ones that John would need. His refusal to turn to see his friend was too persistent to be coincidental.  
John did not break eye contact with the back of Sherlock’s head. He stared for a moment at the curls and wondered what would happen to him. He had yet to say what he would be doing about this inevitable threat.   
“What about you?” John asked cautiously. His voice was soar and squeaking from worry.  
“Me?” Sherlock asked as if his own safety had not yet crossed his mind.   
“Yes, you. What will you do? You’re coming with me, right?”  
Sherlock turned to his friend and his eyes was struck by an unusual concern.  
“Of course I won’t.” He said with sore throat. “I stay in London.”  
“Sherlock, are you out of your bloody mind?!” hissed John. “You won’t stand a chance in the middle of London!”   
“No, I won’t. But I have things to finish before I flee.”  
“And what might these things be, huh?” asked John feeling an unexpected rage rise inside him. “If you even dare suggest that a case is more important than your life, then I can assure you that the killer will find his own justice, just as everyone else!”  
Sherlock had gone silent for a moment.  
“No. It’s not a case.” He took a deep breath and looked into his flatmate’s eyes. “I need to make sure everyone’s safe.”  
John was shocked and unable to speak.  
“Safe?” his weathered voice repeated.   
“Yes. First you. I get you safe first; take you to Isle of Passio. Then after I have made sure that you can’t be harmed, I will return to the city. I will ensure Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and miss Hooper, and then I will flee.”  
“You will join me on the Isle of Parto?” John asked.  
“Passio. And no, I won’t. Your life will be at stake in case I am a bearer of the disease when I am done here. I will not risk it.”  
John would have protested, but in that moment the display Sherlock’s phone lid up in his hand. He looked down and read the text.  
Car’s here. –MH  
“Your transport is here. I have already packed supplies for you. Mycroft’s provided what we didn’t have.”  
Sherlock had suddenly turned very practical. He no longer fiddled with John’s stuff or made unnecessary movements of any kind. He picked up the rest of the stuff and dragged it down the stairs to the main room.  
“Sherlock!”   
The main room of the flat had a small pile of trunks and bags in the middle of the floor. Plates and vases lay smashed on the floor, obviously pushed down in Sherlock’s search for supplies. On top of the pile of bags lay a handgun and a harpoon.  
A man dressed as a London cabby stood silent by the door. Sherlock stared at him and waited for him to talk.  
“Mycroft’s send me. Nine from seven.”  
“Seven from five.” returned Sherlock promptly.  
They nodded at each other after this exchange of code. The cabby started carrying the luggage down and Sherlock was about to follow him, as John lay a hand on his shoulder.  
“Please, Sherlock. You need to come with me,” he whispered. The taller man stared down at him, and he was sure that he saw a moment of weakness in his eyes. Then it was gone like figure of smoke that was brushed away by the wind and Sherlock tensed.  
“No, I’ll be staying here. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.” He told him fiercely, trying to make it sound an order. “You will go now.”  
“No.” The authority in his voice was one that could only be found in members of the army. He refused to be denied. “You are coming to the island, and you are staying with me. It is not your job to take care of everyone. I am sure they are all capable of keeping themselves safe.”  
He moved an inch closer to seem dominant, but the massive height difference between them didn’t help him. “You can’t take care of yourself. You will get yourself in unnecessary danger. It is better that you take to the Isle of Pasas with me now.”  
“Passio.” Sherlock corrected him. “But I won’t have that. I am staying. You need not worry...”  
“NO!” John found himself shouting and wondered if they could be heard by the flat inhabitants beneath them. Then he realised he didn’t bloody care.  
“You go with me!”  
“I can’t, John!” Sherlock sneered.  
“You have to. I won’t go if you don’t go with me.”  
John could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he felt defeated. The determined exterior melted away, and he could see how Sherlock never really wanted to leave John. He may want to stay, but not as much as he wanted his friend to go. And John was not late to take advantage of this. He couldn’t withhold a slight smirk.  
“Are you coming with me?” he asked, more tenderly this time.   
“Yes.” Sherlock said in an airy voice. His long, elegant hand reached up and caressed John’s face, lightly stroking his cheeks and twirling his fingers around his hair. “But only for you.”  
John was short of words, but he didn’t need them. He leaned closer to his friend and traced his jaw line with the soft tip of his finger. Some part of his brain pointed out to him, that the two of them had never been this physically close, but it didn’t seem to matter to him.   
He knew Sherlock and he knew himself. He knew the world was dying.  
The two of them were going to the Island, but both he and Sherlock knew that they were unlikely to survive it. Neither the Atlantic, nor the channel had stopped anything, and though the island may be their best chance, it wasn’t a good one.  
They looked at each other, so dangerously close, and both of them knew that a dying world called for action. It demanded that every feeling, every impulse was acted upon: otherwise it would all too suddenly perish.  
In the very moment John realised that, he rose to the tip of his toes and brought the two of them so achingly close.  
John could feel Sherlock’s heavy warm breath and soon he devoured the last distance between them and kissed his lips. He felt Sherlock’s warm lips and skin and his hands that gripped tighter around him. Their lips opened as the kiss deepened, and John could suddenly feel the hunger in Sherlock’s movement, the starved sensation that was their physical contact.   
John lost track of time for a moment and could not tell how long had passed, when Sherlock broke their kiss momentarily to whisper something in his ear.  
“Goodbye, John.” He said, and John felt a sudden, stinging pain in his neck.  
He stumbled away from Sherlock in confusion and fumbled with the small and sharp object his friend had stung into his neck. He pulled it lose and stared at the needle.  
He looked in shock at Sherlock, and could already feel the dizziness rush upon him.  
“I am sorry. I need to keep you safe.” Sherlock told him in a voice that almost dared to quiver.  
Then the drug overpowered John, and he fell to the floor, as large spots of black covered his sight.


	2. Hell is on its way

When John regained consciousness again he was lying in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed. A firm and angry wind howled at the night outside, and rain smashed down on the roof. After some initial confusion, the memories of what had happened came back to him.  
“Sherlock.” He moaned as he clumsily tried to get up. He came to stand on his feet and then realized he was no longer in his flat. Hell, he was no longer in London.  
He was in a small room with faded blue tapestry. The air smelled like sea and tasted like dust. His luggage lay in an untidy pile in the centre of the room. There was a desk and a bed, and two of the walls were lined completely with cupboards. One of them gaped open and revealed its content, which was mostly canned food, candles and warm clothes. Leaning against the wall was the harpoon.  
The small weather-beaten hub seemed to consist of only two other rooms: a kitchen and some pathetic excuse for a bathroom. The kitchen was stacked with yet more canned food.  
Through the dirty windows the pouring rain allowed him to see no more than a few meters of stone-covered, barren land.  
Returning to the room he had woken up in, John discovered a pile of documents lying on the bed. He had been too confused a moment ago to even notice them.  
A flicker of hope sprang to life inside him as he thought it might be a letter from Sherlock explaining that what going on. His hopes fell quickly when he went through the pile.  
The papers were mostly instructions. Some of them taught him how to work the turbine that was apparently located in a stream on this small and deserted island. Others told him how to achieve a varied diet on only canned food. Many of them were dedicated to the skill of avoiding airborne diseases and a few even briefly discussed the subject of killing people effectively with a 6 foot harpoon.  
John was getting anxious going through the pile of papers without finding a single one addressed personally to him. He had not yet come to terms with the fact that the man he adored had first deceivingly kissed him in order to violently drug him and then dumped him on some god-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. And then Sherlock hadn’t even written anything. A letter, a post-it note, anything!  
John sat down on the bed and wondered what he was going to do now. He couldn’t stay; that was for certain.  
His head hurt like he had fallen hard on it recently so he lied down and as he put his head on the pillow he heard the unmistakable noise of moving paper. He rushed up and reached under the pillow and pulled out an envelope. On it was written his name in Sherlock’s elegant handwriting. He opened it with shaking fingers.

John,  
I apologize for my traitorous behaviour, but I had to keep you safe. I hope you will have trust in me when I say it was not enjoyable for me.  
I know what you’re planning, but I strongly advise you to stay on the island. I am not in danger, and there is no need for you to run around playing hero. I promise I will find shelter as soon as possible.  
I beg that you will remain here until termination of the threat .I doubt it will last any longer than a couple of weeks with the power and swiftness with which it is spreading. Nevertheless, I advise you to stay as long as your stash of food allows you.  
Take care, my doctor.

Sherlock

John anxiously turned the paper to see if it was continued, but this was all there was.  
Leaving the letter on the bed he got up and went to stare out the window. The rain had slowly starting to settle down, and he wondered how long he’d been unconscious. Had it been a couple of hours or for a full day?  
He wondered, too, if Sherlock really would be safe. He didn’t really have a history of concern for his own wellbeing, considering the many times he’d skipped food or sleep for days in his desperation to solve a case. Then again, he was certainly not foolish, and he had firmly promised not to get in any danger.  
The third thing John thought of was how fast he could get off this island.

 

“How is he?” Mycroft asked interested as he put his spoon down and took a sip of his tea. He and his brother were sitting in Mycroft’s office. The place was only lid by the fireplace, by which they were sitting in comfortable chairs made of leather with neat little pillows.  
“Who?” Sherlock asked and pulled his eyes from the fire that cackled lightly.  
“You know who.” His brother told him seriously.  
“John’s fine. He’s at the island of Passio. Far from anyone who might get the disease.” He told him and took a large sip of his tea in order to avoid the concerned look his brother sent him.  
“And I assume that you’re aware of the fact that he’ll probably return anyway?” Mycroft added. “He has grown very fond of you.”  
“I haven’t left a boat on the island.” Sherlock said and sighed. “He’ll have to make himself a raft to get off, and by the time he’s done with that it’ll be too late.”  
Mycroft opened his mouth to add something to, but Sherlock changed the subject before he could draw in his breath.  
“What will you do? I assume you’ll be leaving London.”  
“Yes. I’ll be going to the mansion in Wales.” Mycroft said. “It has a very lovely defence system. Walls. All the way around.”  
Sherlock eyes returned to the fire that licked and caressed the wood like some devouring lover.  
“So you believe there will be a fight? You believe the things they say? The things they say about the dead bodies?”  
Mycroft put down his empty tea cup on the table and poured himself some more.  
“I know so, Sherlock. I have just seen footage they sent us from Hong Kong. The hungry bodies are rising and turning on the living. It’s a nightmare out there, and that nightmare is approaching home disturbingly swiftly. “  
Sherlock sank his spit as he realised just how much more dangerous the threat just got.  
“And a cure?” he asked.  
“After full conversion, there is no cure.”  
“And before…?” Sherlock waited for him to elaborate.  
“We don’t know yet. We have men going through the empty wasteland that used to be Alberqueque in order to dig up the result of the first experiments.”  
“I trust you will contact me as soon as you have them.” Sherlock stated, his eyebrow raised at his brother in search of confirmation.”  
“Of course,” Mycroft confirmed. For a moment the brothers fell silent.  
“What do you plan on doing, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked in a voice that indicated he was afraid Sherlock would stay behind to observe the disease make its entry in London.  
“I am going to stay here for the night. I have ensured Mrs. Hudson’s transport out of the city tomorrow afternoon, but I have yet to get Hooper her needed stock of food. She is staying in the locked morgue until the threat is terminated. I have yet to take care of Lestrade, though I have warned him. He is probably packing this moment...”  
Mycroft interrupted his brother with greatest caution.  
“Inspector Lestrade’s safety,” he said slowly. He seemed to fiddle with the words before he continued. “has been taken care of. He is going with me to Wales in 30 minutes.”  
A deep silence fell over the room. The two brothers stared at each other with equally unreadable eyes.  
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.” Mycroft snapped.  
“I won’t.” Sherlock assured him.  
They turned their gazes from one another and instead stared into the flames together. The sun outside was starting to set and the flickering orange light was gradually growing more distinctive.  
“When will you leave?” asked Mycroft in a soft voice, breaking the silence.  
“Tomorrow.”  
“I will not force you to anything, but you better be out of this doomed city by sunset tomorrow.” Mycroft told him. “Order will turn into chaos soon.”  
“Yes.” Sherlock nodded knowingly with an absentminded gaze into nothing. “When will they air the news?”  
Mycroft made a glance at his watch.  
“15 minutes.” He told him. “Which means I’ve got to leave now. Don’t want to get caught up in the traffic.”  
He got up and took his coat off a hook on the wall by the door. He had already reached out to pull the door knob and walk out when he stopped himself. He turned and looked at his brother.  
“Goodbye, Sherlock,” he said.  
“Goodbye, Mycroft.” was the answer. The younger Holmes turned and they shared a long moment of silent farewell.  
“Take care.” The older said. “I will see you again when all this is over.”  
“Indeed you will.”  
Then Mycroft left the room and left his brother alone.  
Sherlock sat motionless for 12 minutes after which he got up and turned on the television to watch the news airing.  
The media made it sound as if the news of the disease’s arrival in Paris was just in and not hours old. They advised people to keep calm and carry on as if nothing was happening. The news reporter went as far as reassuring the people of Britain yet again that the disease had no chance of crossing the channel.  
Sherlock could easily tell he was lying.


	3. Welcome

Molly Hooper stood panting heavily with her back leaned up the door into the mausoleum, as if she was afraid the lock would fail and she’d have to keep out the monster with her own strength.  
She clenched her arm, feeling the place under her sleeve where the thing, whatever it was, had sucked its teeth into her muscle. It wasn’t deep or bleeding particularly much, but it stung.  
She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the body’s wild, yet empty eyes that had suddenly opened while she was making herself ready to cut it up. She didn’t dare to think of the ice-cold, dead skin that touched her as it grabbed around her arm and dug its nails into her bicep. She’d gotten away.  
Molly raised herself to the tip of her toes and glanced through the glass window in the door. The body was walking around in there. It stood considerably stabile, but it was clumsy and graceless.  
It didn’t do anything, other than mess up the equipment, and send the occasional glance at her, as if it was impatiently waiting for a chance to go at her again.  
It was the body of a middle-aged man, wearing something that was a pathetic parody of the nice, pinstriped suit it had once been. Drool dribbled from the corners of its mouth.  
“Hooper?” Sherlock called from the other end of the corridor, the deep voice echoing at the walls.  
“I’m here,” she called back, tearing her gaze from the body.  
“Where is it?” he said, as he turned round the corner and came to a halt beside her, breathing heavily from running.  
He went to the window of the door and stared into the mausoleum. The body had suddenly found interest in the newcomer, for it turned towards him. Its head turned slightly to the side, and some sick caricature of a smile broke its lips, revealing a set of dark, rotten teeth.  
“What’s it doing?” Sherlock whispered. He was standing so close up the window that dampness from his breath formed tiny droplets on the glass.  
“Just walking around.” Molly informed him. “Well, except for when that time it leaped at me, trying to kill me.”  
“Should we try…?” He was leaning up the door handle, as if readying to open.  
“I don’t think…” she began, but Sherlock had already turned the lock and swung the door wide open.  
There was a moment of complete silence, as the beast stared at them, and they stared at it. It breathed loudly and troubled and was constantly swaying slightly like a young tree in the wind. For a moment they both started to wonder if it would ever harm them.  
With no warning at all it had leapt towards them, stumbling at incredible, yet clumsy, speed at them.  
A man who wasn’t Sherlock might not have had the time to react, but fortunately, this man was. He reached out and grabbed a lab coat, throwing over the charging body.  
He threw himself at it and they both fell to the floor. A horrible sound of something snapping echoed at the walls, indicating that a bone in the creature’s body had given in to the forceful weight.  
It pushed out a growl from the back of its throat, a sound somewhere in between faraway thunder and an attack dog ready to kill.  
“What is it?!” screamed Molly in panic as she finally regained the power of speech that she had temporarily lost with the shock of its attack.  
“It’s the illness. But Molly, focus.” He was sitting over the corpse, trying to hold it down with his weight, while still avoiding the touch of its skin of its sharp, grabbing fingernails. “Reach into my pocket and take the gun.”  
Molly fell down to her knees and reached into the pocket of his great coat. She felt the cold metal of the gun and took it out. She recognized it as John’s gun from his time in the army. Then she realized what she was doing.  
“Wait, what? What do you want me to do with this?” She gestured wildly at the gun, trying her hardest not to look at the corpse more than absolute necessary.  
“I want you to shoot it. In its head.”  
She hesitated.  
“Hooper, shoot it now!” he screamed at her, his physical struggle marked in the tone of his voice.  
“Are you completely mad?! I can’t shoot it! It’s a person!”  
“No, it’s not. Trust me. I’ll explain later. Shoot it!”  
“I’m not going to shoot anyone!” Molly screamed, in panic and fury. “We-we need to lock him in somewhere and wait for it to cool down or for a treatment or s-...”  
Sherlock grew impatient and nervous that he might not be able to hold on to the struggling corpse much longer. It was now furiously trying to bite of his hands.  
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he whispered under his breath and let go of the corpse with one hand and gripped the gun out of Molly’s and shot the corpse between the eyes before it could react.  
The gunshot echoed shortly in the morgue, and the blood, brain and splintered pieces of skull splattered out on the floor. Molly let out a single cry of terror.  
“What did you do that for?”  
Sherlock got up and made sure a minimum of blood had gotten on him. He then took Molly by her arm and pulled her out of the room, locking the door behind.  
“It was necessary. It had no chance of ever returning to its humanity. This was the merciful way.”  
“Let go of me!”Molly hissed as she shook herself free from Sherlock’s grip. He turned away and walked down the corridor toward the exit.  
“Follow. We need to go to Baker S-…” he began, but she cut him off.  
“Sherlock Holmes!” She screamed, refusing to move. “You stay here, and you give me some bloody answers, you hear me?!”  
Sherlock halted and stopped. He turned around slowly, a mixture of fascination and shock in his face. He had never heard her speak to him this way, and it caught him off guard.  
“One of the victims of the South American Epidemic was transported to Albuquerque for experiments after the continent almost died. “ He started in an assembled, clear voice. “They did experiments and observed the creature that had come out of what was before a human being. It didn’t stop in its attempt at killing every human it saw. It never stopped. Seven days after infection it died of hunger, due to its refusal at eating anything other than human meat.”  
Molly was quiet for a moment, trying to consume the information she’d gained.  
“Albuquerque,” she repeated slowly. “That was where…”  
“Yes.” Sherlock confirmed her theory. “The disease was set free. And now it’s killing everybody.”

They took a cab back to Baker Street, and rushed into the flat. The place was ghostly empty.  
“But the government’s been saying…” Molly said, continuing the conversation that they had briefly shared at Bart’s. “They’ve been saying that there is no chance of the epidemic coming to Britain. They’ve been lying?”  
“I believe so,” Sherlock confirmed, his back turned to Molly as he started pulling out a map of London from his desk drawer and pinning it to the wall. “Either that, or they’ve been misinformed. I see either way equally plausible, but Mycroft leans more to the former explanation. Being around politicians for this long, he has very little trust in them.”  
Molly walked towards the window and pulled apart the curtains to look down at the busy street below. The curtains had been ripped in Sherlock’s feverish search around the flat.  
She wondered if the people in the streets would be safe. Wondered how long they had left, if Sherlock’s prediction of imminent doom were to come true.  
She felt ill, like if she had a fever. Her hands felt cold against her forehead.  
This morning, the corpse had been delivered to her morgue, frozen. The tag said he had died in the East End, but even at the time she had doubted it. He had been dead for too long.  
The body was supposed to be stored in the hospital until noon, when a couple of experts were to examine it.  
“Oh, Molly, you’re here?” the sweet, high voice of Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She had entered the room with a tray of tea and biscuits.  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her, and Mrs. Hudson immediately felt the need to excuse her kindness. “I’ve brought some tea for you, Sherlock. Just so you wouldn’t feel alone without John in the flat. Is he okay?”  
“Yes, he is perfectly fine,” Sherlock said with a crooked smile, taking the tray off her hands and placing it on the coffee table after having pushed a mess of books off it with his foot to make room.  
“What’s this for?” Molly asked, turning her gaze from the street to the map Sherlock had pinned to the wall. He had circled the flat at Baker Street and put a red dot over Bart’s.  
“I’m mapping the disease’s progress in London. It will make it easier to spot a pattern.”  
Molly opened her mouth to comment, but Sherlock cut her off before she could utter a single word.  
“But, Hooper, there are much more urgent matters to tend to.”  
He finally turned towards her, after having seated Mrs Hudson in the sofa and offered her some of her own tea.  
“What do you mean?” Molly said, her voice failing to sound unconcerned. Sherlock walked towards her, and with every step he took she felt smaller.  
But the expression in his face was not that of anger or fury as she had expected. It was kind and worried, an expression so unfamiliar in Sherlock’s face it almost seemed unreal.  
“You keep scratching your left arm,” Sherlock informed her, the concern from his eyes bleeding into his voice. Molly froze. “You’ve been taking great care since the morgue not to expose it or let anything touch it. It can be hard to tell in patterned textiles, but it’s clear that you’re bleeding through the fabric.”  
Molly couldn’t look in Sherlock’s eyes, so she turned her eyes to the floor.  
It hadn’t been a conscious decision to keep the wound hidden, but since Sherlock forced the gun out of her hands and mercilessly killed the infected body, she’d known she had to keep it secret. She was afraid how fast he would put her down.  
“You mustn’t think…” she started, but once more Sherlock interrupted her mid-sentence.  
“You’re shaking. You have a fever.” He said, in a slow voice. “Show me your arm.”  
“Sherlock, what are you saying!” Mrs. Hudson yelled, putting down her tea on the table.  
“She’s been infected.” Sherlock said calmly. “She’s been lying all this time, because she knows…”  
This time, it was Molly who cut him off.  
“Sherlock!” she hissed, meeting his eyes with a fiery rage.  
Her sudden reaction even startled the detective.  
“I didn’t say anything, but it’s not that bad, okay?!”  
She pulled up her sleeve and showed Hudson and Holmes her wound. Mrs Hudson gasped. Sherlock frowned in curiosity.  
Molly herself was a little shocked. The wound had been superficial and barely bleeding when she had last seen it in the morgue. Now the blood had turned a muddy brown and was leaking yellow exudates. Greenish blood veins were visible under her pallid skin.  
“That looks bad,” Mrs Hudson informed them and leaned into get a better look at it. “Should I get the medical set down in …”  
“Mrs Hudson, I’d appreciate it if you got it, yes. And quick.” 

“Just sit down here,” Mrs Hudson suggests and moves a stack of books that was lying on the sofa to make room for Molly.  
“I swear, I thought it was just something superficial that I could look at when I came home. I’m really terribly sorry.” Molly apologized eagerly while she sits down. Mrs Hudson takes her arm in her hands and by guidance of her patient starts disinfecting the wound.  
Sherlock was pacing restlessly up and down the floor, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. His lips tightened when he saw his brother’s name on the display.  
Without a word he left the room and leaped up the stairs and into his bedroom. He closed the door behind him, before he answered the call.  
The brothers greeted each other heartedly:  
“Mycroft.”  
“Sherlock.”  
For a moment they didn’t speak.  
“New information has arrived from America.”  
“Tell me everything,” Sherlock said.  
“The disease only spreads through physical contact. Bites, primarily, but also by exchange of blood. Upon infection a high fever rises in the infected, killing them within two to fourteen hours. A few moments after their hearts have stopped, they convert fully into what the researchers called ‘the walking dead’.”  
“Catchy name,” Sherlock observed cheekily, but his eyes were dead as he progressed the information.  
“Yes, you’d think they were writers not scientists, wouldn’t you?” Mycroft replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  
“How is the infected cured?” Sherlock asked, shifting his weight from one foot to another in impatience. “Before full conversion?”  
“I recommend a shovel.” Mycroft advised. ”They won’t die from blood loss and they won’t feel any pain, so to kill them you’d have to destroy the brain. Nothing else seems to work, apparently. Make sure to crack the skull, then you should be sa…”  
“You’re not telling me how to cure it,” Sherlock cut him off. “You’re telling me how to kill them.”  
Mycroft turned dead silent for a couple of seconds.  
“There is no cure, Sherlock. I suggest you get out of the city immediately and not wait for the sun to set. If anyone’s infected within 50 miles of you, you’re in danger.”  
“You almost sound concerned. Be careful, I hear sentimentality is as deadly as the disease.” Sherlock smirked.  
On the other end of the line, Mycroft sighed heavily. “Get out. Fifty miles, remember.”  
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. There is someone infected just downstairs.”  
Mycroft started to say something on the other end, but in that moment the line cut and Sherlock’s phone turned silent.  
Sherlock was already rushing down the stairs when he heard a loud scream of terror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are appreciated.


	4. Urgency

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed as he rushed down the stairs, skipping the last five steps in one jump and hitting the floor with a thump that ached in every bone in his body. The scream that echoed through the building send shivers down his spine.  
As he knocked in the door, he saw Mrs. Hudson in the opposite corner of the room, crouched down under the table with her arms covering her head. Over and over, she screamed Sherlock's name. Molly Hooper was ripping apart furniture to get to her, ripped out pages and feathers floating around her in a chaotic whirlwind.   
Except it wasn't Molly Hooper at all. Her skin was dark grey and leathery, her eyes yellow protruding and sickish yellow. Her wound was open and gushing blood and infection fluid. Her arms swirling around her, her fingers hooked like claws, grapping and tearing and destroying. Her bony, trembling hand reaching in through the tangle of furniture to get to the screaming landlady.  
"Hey!" Sherlock yelled at her, and she swirled around to face him. Seeing her face clearly was horrifying. The dark skin, the yellow eyes, the froth dripping out of her mouth, and the hunger. The hunger that radiated so clearly from her, that a more sentimental man might have taken pity in her.   
She only halted for a moment, then she rushed towards him, one arm outstretched, the other dangling madly from her side.  
Sherlock leaped out of her reached, backing into the kitchen and throwing at her any kind of kitchenware he could get his hands on. Pans and pots and knifes flying at her, hitting her skull with loud, metallic echoes. She growled. Deep down from the bottom of her voice ranged, she growled like a bear and then squealed like a pig. Sherlock knew his safety relied on the safety of his feet, maneuvering her around the kitchen table, as she stumbled after him, knocking over chairs, dead in her eyes.  
"Get out of here!" he screamed, waving frantically for Mrs Hudson who was static with shock.   
"Sherlock, watch out!" she yelled as Molly flung herself over the kitchen table in a sudden burst of desperation. He reached behind him and grabbed one of the kitchen knives and with a great precision and force, stabbed it through her hand and into the wooden table top. She squealed again, stopped in her tracks, pulling at her hand to free it. But her hand was stuck, and dark lumpy blood spilled out of it, the edge of the knife carving into white bone the more she struggled.  
Sherlock would've cried out with victory but the whole situation was so twisted and backwards that it seemed out of place. He tried to condemn himself to think of it more like animalistic predator than human, but he still couldn't deny that it was Molly's kind eyes that had been made harbour for its hunger.   
So he didn't cry out, he just let his arms fall down his sides and turned around from it.   
"Mrs Hudson, are you harmed?" he asked her, reaching out for her and letting her lean up against him to keep her balance.  
"Perfectly alright," she assured him, but her whole fragile body was shaking like an earthquake. "But you must explai... Oh!"  
She shrieked, terror in her eyes, pointing at the kitchen with her shaking hand. Sherlock spun around so see the dark-grey creature standing atop the table, both feet secured on the table and pulling at the tied-down hand. Right as Sherlock could process what he was seeing, her hand got ripped over at the wrist, broken bones and muscle and clumpy blood spilling out of the stump. She hissed and jumped towards them in two long leaps like a tiger, desperation making it deadly. They were cornered, without a chance.   
Suddenly, the room got ripped apart by an explosion, short and loud and close. The creature's head split opened as a bullet pierced through it. Caught in mid-air it slammed down into the floor, landing between torn out pages and broken glass, spotting it with dried-up blood and pieces of skull.  
In the doorway to the flat, John Watson stood with his arm outstretched, smoking gun in his hand.


End file.
